


Nightclub

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Clubbing, Fluff, I have never been to a dance/nightclub please forgive me, M/M, Post-Break Up, not with Bond though I'm not that mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8657578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Q's just had a messy break-up. Eve wants to help.





	

Q isn’t sure about this, but Eve is, and he trusts her.

Eve sorts through his wardrobe, making exasperated noises. “You mean you don’t have _anything_ fun?” she demands, hands on her hips as she twists and gives Q a soft-edged glare.

“I threw it all out,” Q answers quietly. “It reminded me of him.”

Eve’s expression softens, and she comes over to sit next to him on the bed and hug him. “I’m sorry, love,” she murmurs, running her fingers through his hair. He leans against her gratefully, but does not cry. He’s cried himself out already, although it has been a week.

It had been… messy. He flinches from the memory. He recalls that he’d been crying as he’d shoved Ian out the door, shouting that if he ever came back Q would erase his entire existence from the internet and every database in Britain. He recalls Ian shouting back that Q should bloody try it, because Ian’s parents were members of the House of Lords and he’d be back in the system before Q could blink. They hadn’t physically assaulted each other, but Q hurt and angry is Q dangerous, and he’d verbally laid into Ian right there in the hall until he’d been shamed to tears as well.

And now, a week later—a week spent crying, ridding the flat of his former lover’s presence, and drinking wine until he couldn’t see straight—Eve has suggested a night on the town.

“Come on,” Eve coaxes, “Let’s go shopping. You need something fun to wear. Cardigans don’t belong in dance-clubs.”

Q allows her to convince him, and they take her car. It’s sleek and beautiful and Q is intensely jealous, but he doesn’t have Eve’s preternatural ability to find parking spaces at will, so he sticks to the Tube and busses. Eve is a slightly reckless driver, but she gets where she wants to be without causing accidents, and that’s what counts.

They go to Westfield, because Eve is faithful to her shopping centers, and go on an epic adventure. She leads Q unfailingly, and in two hours he has seven brand new outfits. Other shoppers had seemed amused to see Eve re-teaching Q how to dress for a night out, but slowly, he had removed himself from memories and begun to choose for himself. Now they stand in a jewelry store, looking idly, Q thinks; but suddenly Eve grabs his arm and points, saying triumphantly, “Now, _those_ would look lovely on you.”

“Eve, you know I can’t afford anything here,” Q whines, though when his eyes catch on the green stone earrings twinkling invitingly, he wishes he had the money. He hasn’t worn earrings in forever, and they wouldn’t even show under his hair, which he hasn’t gotten cut in a year because Ian had said it was beautiful—

Eve snorts and rolls her eyes. “Silly goose. I’ll buy them for you.”

“What? Eve, no, you don’t have to—I don’t need them!”

“You want to look your best tonight, don’t you?” she ripostes. “Come on, Q, let me do this one thing for you.”

“But—they’re so expensive!” he stutters, more alarmed by the moment, seeing that Eve really means it. “You don’t have that kind of money either!”

“Q, you wound me,” Eve gasps, a hand flying to her heart in mock offense. “You assume I have cats and nieces and nephews to spoil. Unlike you, I’ve been saving for a year. I can afford some earrings for my best friend.”

“But—“

It’s no use. Eve purchases the earrings and tucks them in one of Q’s shopping bags. He stops protesting, sighing deeply and allowing her to steer him back out into the mall proper.

They drive back to Eve’s to finish preparing for the night out. After a shot of teiquila each, Eve drags Q to the bedroom and they dress together. They’ve gone swimming together often enough that neither of them care about the other being in their underwear. Q helps Eve choose a dress of shimmering black with violently jagged shapes in a red the shade of the Devil’s lipstick that serve to make her look dangerously gorgeous, the dress hugging her curves, the slit on one side almost reaching her panty-line and the neckline perilously low. Eve steers Q gently towards skinny jeans and a tight leather jacket with a green fitted t-shirt underneath.

“Nothing too adventurous tonight, love,” Eve tells him, and he sighs in relief. “Maybe tomorrow night we’ll dress you up even more, but tonight we just want you to forget.”

Q nods vigorously, making Eve laugh.

Finally, they’re ready. It’s 11PM, Eve’s preferred time. They take a taxi because they can and Q still has money from his last job, and show up at the club just in time to get in the queue before a gaggle of giggling young people. Q can feel eyes on the back of his head, and somewhat lower. Eve notices his discomfort, and takes his hand, as easy as breathing; he flashes her a grateful smile, and she replies with a grin.

The bouncer lets them in early because Eve smiles prettily and Q slips him a few quid. As soon as they enter the club, it comes crashing down on Q that this is a terrible idea, he doesn’t want to be here, there are too many people, and really he should be cuddling his cats right now. Eve senses him beginning to balk, and slips her arm around his waist, murmuring in his ear, “We’ll leave in ten minutes. Let’s just show off how good we look first, and get ourselves some drinks.”

Q nods and Eve leads the way to the bar, her arm still around his waist. He gets his own arm around her shoulders, and in seconds they’ve settled into their patented two-person-sashay. Their friends in uni had laughed uncomfortably and said it was weird, how easily Q and Eve meshed; but here, now, in this tightly-packed club, with appreciative eyes on him, Q doesn’t mind.

Okay, so Q likes attention. It’s not his fault. Mostly he basks in the praise of his fellow computer fiends, but sometimes—like now—he just wants someone to like his look, his walk, his tiny smile. He wants someone to notice him.

Eve orders the shots and Q pays. Solemnly, they clink glasses.

“To being free again,” Eve toasts gravely.

“To being free again,” Q echoes.

They knock back their shots, then order larger drinks, two tropical-type concoctions that taste fucking fantastic. Q stretches the time limit in his head to fifteen minutes.

“Let’s go people-watch,” Eve suggests.

“Let’s,” Q agrees comfortably, and follows Eve’s lead to a relatively quiet spot on the wall, where they sip their drinks and watch the dancefloor.

Q feels eyes on him. He does not turn to meet them. Just because he likes being looked at does not mean he likes being hit on. Eve, however, loves to flirt, and is soon deep in innuendo-filled conversation with a man who seems to be trying to lure her away from Q. But Eve stubbornly sticks by Q’s side, easily ignoring the man’s hints.

“It’s alright,” Q tells Eve quietly. “I’ll be fine.”

She gives him a quick, searching look, then nods, turns, and wanders off with the man, who seems extraordinarily pleased.

Q watches the dancers, leaning back on the wall, comfortable now in his bubble of Look But Don’t Touch. Eyes touch on him, note him, and pass by. That is how Q likes it.

What he doesn’t like is when people suddenly appear at his elbow and offer, “May I buy you another drink?”

He jumps and almost drops his glass, which does appear to be empty. He gazes at it in surprise for half a second before looking up again.

He’s almost of a height with the man who’s slipped up beside him so silently, although the other is broader, more powerful, and is quite handsome, in a craggy kind of way. Q knows his own attraction lies in his fragility; this man is all power and assuredness. His eyes are quite blue, his hair is short and blond, and his ears stick out just enough to be at odds with the rest of him. And his slight, charming smirk could not have been any more different from Ian’s comical leer.

Q finds himself drawn to the fellow at once, if only because he is so very unlike Ian.

“Um,” he says, in answer to the man’s question. “Yes?”

The smirk becomes a small, still quite charming, smile. Maybe Q is charming him back. “Name’s Bond. James Bond. What’s yours?”

“Q.”

“Well, Q, what will you have?”

~

Q hadn’t expected to find someone to distract him quite so easily.

After buying Q a very expensive martini, Bond led him to a table, which was miraculously empty. Then they had begun to talk. It’s been twenty-five minutes and Q hasn’t been annoyed or bored or nervous even _once_.

Tentatively, he decides that, if Bond asks him to dance, he’ll do so.

But dancing is not on the agenda yet. Right now, they are discussing cars. Specifically, they are discussing luxury supercars and their mechanics. It’s not an argument—Bond is far too charming for that—but it’s certainly lively, and Q finds himself gesturing with his hands again, like he does with his friends. He really, really likes the looks Bond keeps giving him. They make him feel shivery and prickly in an exhilarating way.

Ian never looked at him like that.

Bond is telling Q all about the Aston Martin he’d test-driven (he’s some sort of bodyguard-slash-chauffer) when Eve slides into the seat beside Q and slouches elegantly.

“Hello, darling,” she greets Q in a drawl, with a teasing smile and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Who’s this?”

“Hello, dearest,” Q replies. “This is James Bond. Bond, this is my friend Eve.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Eve,” Bond greets her, with a smile not quite as charismatic as the one he’s been turning on Q. “Brad not to your tastes?”

“Oh, is that his name? Pish. He turned out to be as shallow as a puddle at noon,” Eve snorts, gesturing eloquently to further express her disinterest. “I dropped him in the laps of some equally silly young women. Q, dear, I seem to have forgotten my wallet. May I borrow yours?”

“Of course, my love,” Q answers, reaching for his wallet, but Bond stops him with the lightest touch to his wrist. The contact should not make Q’s breath catch, but it does.

“I’ll buy us another round,” Bond proposes, standing. “What’ll you have?”

Eve and Q tell him, he smiles and nods, and then he’s off to buy their drinks.

Eve immediately turns to Q and raises an eyebrow.

“I like him,” Q answers the unspoken question, tentatively. “He’s interesting. And nice. And he knows what he’s talking about.”

“And you’ve been talking to him for nigh on half an hour,” Eve replies, amused. “I’m getting bored, Q.”

“One more drink? Please?”

Eve laughs, a bright, please sound. “Oh, this was a much better idea than I ever imagined! Okay, love, one more drink. Then I’m going to go dance.”

“Alright.”

Bond returns at that moment with their drinks, carrying all three expertly; he hands both Eve and Q their glasses, and if his fingertips brush Q’s, no one else needs to know.

The topic of conversation turns to the various bars, clubs, and pubs the three of them have visited. Bond has done a fair bit of travelling, and regales them with tales of impossible happenings in ridiculous places. Q smiles freely, feeling the last bit of mourning slide off his shoulders like a too-heavy cloak. This… was an excellent idea.

“Can I interest you in a dance?” Bond asks.

“Of course,” Q answers.

And then they are on the dancefloor and Q is smiling so wide it could almost classify as a grin.

Bond is an excellent partner. His hands take no liberties that Q does not give, and Q returns the favor—at least, until Bond murmurs in his ear, “Feel free to touch wherever you want.”

“Nothing below the belt, please,” Q replies, hesitantly. “I’m… that is…”

“I understand,” Bond cuts in gently, and his hands settle on Q’s waist, just above his belt. Q’s own hands land on Bond’s arms. “So. Eve is your…?”

“Friend,” Q answers firmly. “We’re very close, but we’re just friends.”

Bond hums agreement and acknowledgement.

They dance in silence, and that is good, because soon Q is too flushed and flustered to speak properly. Bond doesn’t touch him below the belt, and he always waits for a nod or a shake of the head; but _god_ , is he good with his hands. And Q finds himself dancing closer and closer, trying to press up against him without being too obvious about it, until Bond chuckles and takes hold of his waist, pulling him close so Q’s back is flush with Bond’s chest and abdomen. Q’s breath stutters, and Bond is immediately in his ear; “Was that too far?”

“No,” Q gets out rather breathlessly, one hand reaching up and back to fist in Bond’s hair, “No, that’s—this is fine. This is—fine.”

Bond presses a gentle kiss to the side of Q’s neck, and Q gasps quietly. Oh, he’s gone. He’s not ready to take Bond to bed—not really—but he will definitely give Bond his number.

It’s not really dancing anymore, so Bond leads the way back to the table, which, amazingly, is still free. Q’s hand in Bond’s is sweaty, too warm, but singing gloriously at the contact. It’s too hot in here. And his jeans don’t seem to fit right anymore. But Bond leaves him there, kisses his hand gallantly before going away—to get drinks, Q supposes. He crosses his legs, hoping to hide the start of his erection.

He’s just beginning to feel better when Bond returns. “I thought you’d prefer water for this round,” Bond comments as he hands over a glass of clear liquid. Q nods and sips, not daring to uncross his legs.

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you seen Eve?”

Bond looks around, casually; but Q can see the sharpness of his gaze. He’s truly scanning the place. Then he nods to a spot just behind Q. “There she is, and headed our way. She does not look very happy.”

Q twists to see over the back of the booth, and indeed, Eve is cutting through the crowd like a queen through her courtiers, her lips pressed tight and eyes narrowed. Her hands are fists, swinging freely at her sides, and her walk is tight and defensive. She’s been cornered recently. Hopefully she hasn’t hit anyone.

Q almost stands, but then she’s got her hands on his shoulders and has leaned down to murmur, “He’s here. We need to leave.”

His extremities feel suddenly cold, his hands and feet numb. Bond is watching them carefully. Then suddenly he says, “I’ll get you a taxi.”

Q and Eve stare at him. Then, feeling reckless and strange, Q downs the rest of his water and stands. “Alright. I—that is—can we—“

“Exchange numbers?” Bond guesses, and smiles slowly as Q nods. It’s a very different smile, and it makes his previous charm look smarmy. This is a real smile, a real admittance of happiness. “Nothing would make me happier.”

So Q gets out his phone, blushing, and exchanges numbers with Bond. Bond takes Q’s hand and tucks it in the crook of Bond’s elbow, and walks him to the door. Eve follows, giggling.

Bond procures a taxi, and courteously holds the door for Eve and Q. When they are safely inside, he hands over a wad of cash that was definitely _not_ in his hand a minute ago, and says, “Keep the change.” With a final cheeky wink, he shuts the door.

Eve gives the driver her address, and sits back in her seat, eyes on Q. “What?” he demands, wishing he didn’t blush quite so much sometimes.

“So you’ve made a conquest,” she answers. Slowly, she begins to smile. “A charming, gallant, _handsome_ conquest. He barely looked at anyone else the whole time he was with you.”

Q nods, fingering his jacket’s zip. Somehow it’s come undone, and he suspects those deft hands on the dancefloor. “I noticed,” he answers Eve softly. He’d forgotten how good it feels to have someone’s undivided attention for longer than fifteen minutes. And the way Bond had attended to him…

“You want to see more of him,” Eve states.

“Yes,” he decides suddenly. “I do.”

Eve grins. “That can easily be arranged.”

~

The next night, they choose a different club. Eve wears a dress of pure red, mini-skirt length, with cap sleeves and almost no neckline. Q allows her to put him in leather once more, this time a leather vest dyed the deepest green, with a white sleeveless t-shirt underneath, and leather trousers that cling to every inch.

“Call him,” Eve urges when they’re finished.

Q pulls out his phone, thinks about it, then shakes his head. “No,” he decides. “I want to have fun without a potential date.”

Eve eyes him measuringly, then smiles. “Alright.”

~~~\0/~~~

James honestly hadn’t known Q would be here tonight. His immediate instinct is to appear at Q’s side and ask for a dance, but that would be wrong. So he hangs back, watching, sipping his martini.

He’s never been so entranced. Every movement draws his eye; when they had spoken, every word had been sung by an angel. James knows there’s something wrong with him, to be so infatuated so quickly, but he’s fairly sure he doesn’t care. He’s never cared about that kind of thing.

James falls in love hard and fast. That is a known fact. But this seems to be faster and harder than usual, probably because Q _can keep up with him_. In fact, James had been left behind at points in their conversations. That hasn’t happened in at least a year.

And he wants so badly to feel like that again. He wants to be bested for once.

But no, he mustn’t. So he lurks, drinking, and keeps an eye out for douches who want to assert dominance over the delicate flower that is Q.

Suddenly, he gets a text; he checks it automatically, and can feel his face light up like a Christmas tree. It’s from Q!

_Would you like to join me and Eve at The Web?_

James shoots back an _Are you sure?_

_Yes, of course I’m sure._

_Be there in five._

~~~\0/~~~

“Be there in five,” Q reads out to Eve.

“Good. I don’t like the look of those dickheads in the corner,” Eve comments, not looking at the dickheads. Q carefully doesn’t look either.

“Where is he that he’ll be here in five minutes?” Q wonders aloud, puzzled.

“Does it matter?”

Q tries to think about that, but he’s had just enough alcohol to not care. He shrugs and lifts his glass to his lips once more. He can feel people looking at him, and it makes him feel so good.

In precisely five minutes, he spots Bond weaving through the crowd, and he feels himself perk up—almost pathetically, but it’s worth it to see that smile.

“Shall we dance?” Bond asks gravely.

“Of course,” Q answers just as solemnly, and, ignoring Eve’s snickering, allows Bond to lead him to the floor.

Once more, Bond has him flushed and panting in minutes, but he’s also excited and energetic. He finds himself pressed tightly against Bond of his own volition, and is rewarded with the sight of shock and delight playing across Bond’s—James’—features.

“I wasn’t supposed to text you,” Q blurts.

“Why not?” James asks, pulling him even closer.

“This was just going to be me and Eve. We were going to have a friend’s night out. But—there was someone I didn’t want to talk to.”

“The same person that drove you out last night.”

“Oh, god, no!” Q shudders just thinking of it. He knows James can feel every twitch, and that… makes him happy. “No, someone else I know. They’re a complete berk.”

“Strong language,” James comments colorlessly.

“I hate them,” Q mutters, then squeaks as James kisses his ear.

“Too far?”

“No. No, not at all.”

They dance a little longer, Q’s heart still hammering like a rabbit’s. He’s fairly sure James can feel that, too. And then, without the slightest hint of a warning, James murmurs, “Has anyone told you how gorgeous you are?”

“Several people, actually,” Q answers, attempting nonchalant. “I’m—I won’t lie. I’m perfectly aware that people like my looks.”

“Yes, but you’re _gorgeous_.” A kiss presses against the hinge of his jaw and his mouth falls open, but the gasp never escapes. “Bloody beautiful.” A kiss on his cheek. “Christ, please stop me if this is too far, but you’re—stunning.”

“Okay, yes, that’s a bit silly,” Q laughs, sufficiently distracted from the fingertips creeping up under the hem of his shirt and vest. “I doubt I’m anything more than attractive.”

“Don’t doubt. Own it.” Bond pulls back to smile mischievously. “You’re beautiful, Q,” he almost purrs.

Q meets his eyes, though all he wants to do it run back to Eve and hide behind her. No one has called him beautiful in months, and no one has used that voice on him… ever. Somehow, he gets out, completely calm, “And you’re mad fit. But you knew that already.”

“Of course I did. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

“No. No, sorry, I’m busy,” Q answers quietly. It’s one thing to dance with someone; it’s quite another to go on a date with them.

“Ah.” There’s a world of disappointment in that single syllable. But he doesn’t press. Instead he says casually, “Well, you have my number. Text me whenever you want.”

“I will.”

~

The next night, Eve truly dolls Q up. She dresses him in tight, shiny trousers, heavy military-style boots, and the leather vest again; but this time she doesn’t let him put on a shirt underneath. She even puts a touch of gloss on his lips and the faintest smoky eye.

“I feel weird,” Q complains.

“Because you haven’t gone clubbing properly in at least a year,” Eve retorts, slipping on a cheongsam given to her by her brother’s Chinese mother-in-law. It was of a creamy golden silk, with the most strikingly colorful flower embroidery. Q had always been jealous of it, but he was reluctant to voice this opinion. “I know, I know, this isn’t very good for clubbing, but it’s pretty and I haven’t worn it in a while. Besides, I have those black thigh-high boots I want to wear. That should switch it up a little.”

“You’re beautiful no matter what you wear,” Q grumbles, rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs. Makeup always makes him sweat.

“Aww, Q, darling, you’re so sweet,” Eve teases, settling the dress properly and reaching in her closet for her boots. “Are you going to text Bond again?”

“No,” Q answers firmly. “I’ve been thinking about that…”

“Don’t tell me you’re talking yourself out of being interested!” Eve barked, straightening abruptly. “I saw you dancing with him. You like him, a lot, and if you let this one go without actually trying for him—“

“It’s too soon.”

Eve stopped, and closed her mouth, and made no further argument.

Q took a shuddering breath and continued. “It’s only been a few days. I… I need time. Getting drunk and dancing with him—fine. I—I can do that. But a date? No. Not yet.”

Eve comes over and hugs him tightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been going about this all wrong, haven’t I?” she murmurs, stroking Q’s hair.

“Probably,” Q replies lightly, hugging back. “Thank you, though. I… I’ve been able to forget, mostly. Thank you for that. Tomorrow night, though, let’s just stay in with some wine.”

“Agreed.”


End file.
